by Jan Burke
“Sure — how about the Stowaway?”
The Stowaway is a small, quiet, and casual bar that has a terrific ocean view. It’s not a place to go if you’re in a rowdy mood or up for anything fancy, which suited me fine.
“Sounds great,” I said. “You want me to drive?”
“I’ll come by for you. I don’t think I can handle the Karmann Ghia until my ribs heal a little more.”
“Give me about half an hour.”
I ran in and took a quick shower to wake myself up and changed into my favorite pair of jeans and a white blouse. I was just putting on my sandals when the doorbell rang.
Frank was wearing shorts again, and we spent a moment looking each other over. Cody came up to the entryway and gave him a yowl of greeting.
“Hey, there, Cody.” He picked the big lug up and scratched him affectionately.
“You’re brave,” I said, noticing that he still had a thin line on his face where Cody had dug the deepest.
“So is Cody. I’m glad to see he’s not afraid of me.”
He set Cody down gently and we made our way out the door.
We drove in silence to the Stowaway. The bar is dark and plain on the inside, no attempt to compete with the scenery outside its one wall of long windows. It was built on three levels, so that anywhere you sat, you had an unobstructed view of the water.
They weren’t crowded, so we were able to sit next to one of the windows, on the lowest level. Frank went up to the bar and brought back a Myers’s and OJ for me, a beer for himself. We watched the waves rolling in on the moonlit beach below.
I drank about half my drink while he sipped at the beer.
“Frank.”
He looked at me.
“I need to fill you in on a few things.”
He didn’t say anything, just sat up a little straighter. This was going to be business, and he subtly adopted a different posture. More distant. I didn’t like it, but it was too late.
I told him about seeing the degree from ASU, about my suspicions of Hollingsworth and Longren, about the connection of the DA and the mayor in all of O’Connor’s notes, about Ann Marchenko and Guy’s discussion of the safe-deposit boxes and money laundering. He asked a question or two for clarification here and there, but otherwise made no comment.
When I had finished, he said, “I really appreciate your telling me all of this, Irene. When are you talking to Guy St. Germain again?”
“I’m going to try to have lunch with him on Monday.”
He looked down into his beer. It seemed to me he was a little curt when he said, “Let me know what you learn, okay?”
“Okay, but I think we need to be cautious there, Frank. He’s sticking his neck out for me. He doesn’t want any negative publicity for the bank.”
“Publicity is your department.” Unmistakably curt.
I bristled at his tone for a moment, but suddenly it dawned on me that I hadn’t told Frank anything about how I had left things with Guy, and that he might be jealous.
“By the way, I’m bringing Lydia along when I go to lunch with Guy. I’m hoping they’ll hit it off with each other.”
He looked up at me. “Really?”
“Really. I can only handle making one guy pissed off at me at a time.”
“I’m not pissed off at you.”
“Give it another five minutes.”
He smiled briefly, then grew serious again. “Irene, look, let the department check Hollingsworth and Longren out. I’ll let you know what we find out and you can write your story from there.”
“I was wrong. It’s going to be less than five minutes.”
He took the hint and we sat there quietly for a while.
“I guess I’m a slow learner,” he said. “I’ve known all along that you were going to keep poking your nose into things until you got hurt. Just try to understand that it isn’t easy on me.”
“I might not get hurt. I might be able to help prevent other people from getting hurt.”
“That’s my job.”
“That’s both of our jobs.”
He shook his head.
“What?” I asked.
No reply. He looked out the windows, sighed and looked back at me.
“Please be careful,” he said.
“I will.”
He looked out the windows again. I couldn’t read him at all. It bothered me. Maybe he had decided to stop mollycoddling me. But I worried that instead he was only distancing himself from me.
“Let’s go,” he said at last.
He drove me home, walked me to the front door, and said a polite goodnight.
I lay awake a long time, angry by turns with myself and then with Frank. Finally I fell asleep.
I dreamed a memory-dream of O’Connor that night. It was a mixture of two separate evenings we had actually spent together, interspliced into one in the dream. We were laughing and drinking and watching fat women dance. He turned to me and said, “Remember what Sister Kenny once said.”
“Sister Kenny?” I said in the dream, just as I had the night he brought it up. “Is she someone who taught you in Catholic school?”
He laughed in the dream, as he had then. “No, my dear, I suppose you are too young to remember Sister Kenny. Elizabeth Kenny. She was an Australian nurse who developed a treatment for polio. And took a lot of guff along the way — but anyway, what she said was, ‘Better to be a lion for a day than a sheep all your life.’”
“I like that.”
“I knew you would” — he smiled in the dream — “I knew you would.”
42
LYDIA AND I drove separately on Monday morning. I went back down to the morgue and checked out microfilm rolls for the last week in March and all of April 1955. Throughout both months Richard Longren was mentioned frequently. Nothing about his leaving town. And during Easter week, he was featured in an article almost every day, in connection with some special committee that was looking into the polio-vaccine controversy and which vaccine should be used by the health department in Las Piernas.
So that let Longren off the hook as far as an opportunity to get together with Jennifer Owens.
I looked up at the clock. I had spent over two hours looking at microfilm. I decided to go upstairs and call Guy.
Guy was his charming self and said that he would love to meet for lunch. “I also have something on that matter we discussed the other day,” he said.
“What did you find out?”
“I think it would be better if we waited on that,” he said, and I realized that someone must be standing near his desk. He went on. “By the way, why don’t you have your friend with the spark join us? He may find it interesting as well.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the bank at about eleven. I’ll bring both friends if I can.”
“I think it would be better if I met you.”
So someone was nearby.
“I take it we don’t want to meet at some banker’s hot spot.”
“No.”
“How about the Thai Royal down on Broadway and Pacific?”
“Good. See you there.”
I stopped by Lydia’s desk and filled her in on the lunch plans. “He wants me to invite Frank, too.”
“Oh, no,” she said.
“What do you mean, ‘Oh, no’?”
“God, Irene, it will be like a double date.”
“Relax. He’s a mature person.”
“What’s that mean? Is this guy 109 years old or something?”
I laughed, realizing I really hadn’t filled her in on Guy. So I told her a few details, and I could tell she was interested.
John Walters strode up to us. “This sounds very much like girl talk to me. You got anything useful to tell me today, Irene?”
“I think I might have something pretty big before the end of the day,” I said.
His bushy brows lifted.
“Can we talk in your office?” I asked.
He motioned me to follow him as he waddle
d off.
“So what’s the story?” he said as he seated himself at his desk.
I filled him in on what I had learned from Guy.
“Well, what do you know. Hollingsworth and Longren, eh?” He mulled this over for a moment. “Do you think O’Connor got killed over this?”
“I’m not sure. I still think that was in connection with Jennifer Owens — Hannah.”
“Hmm.” He studied me, a skeptical look on his face. But he said, “You watch your backside — understand? Now get out of here and get back to work.”
“I understand they’re taking up a collection in the newsroom — they want to pay your tuition for charm school.”
“OUT!” he shouted, but I was already on my way.
I called Frank at police headquarters. I didn’t know how he would respond to the idea of meeting Guy, but I was at least going to give him the invitation.
“Frank?”
“Irene? What’s up?”
“Guy St. Germain has found something out down at the bank. He specifically asked if you could be there when he talks about it. We’re going to meet at the Thai Royal at eleven o’clock. Can you make it?”
He didn’t respond right away.
“I don’t see why not,” he said at last, and I felt a wave of relief.
“Great. See you there.”
SAM WAS ELATED to see me. Naturally, when I told him a couple of gentlemen would be joining us, he was beside himself with joy.
He showed us back to the same booth that I had been in the day Frank had called to say Kenny had been hurt. It seemed like a long time ago.
Guy arrived first, and as I had hoped, he and Lydia seemed to hit it off from the word “go.” Frank arrived a little late, apologizing as he and Guy appraised one another. He had apparently been swamped that morning, trying to catch up on all the loose ends from his days spent recuperating. I introduced him to Guy, and they shook hands as Frank sat next to me. Sam practically danced over and took our order.
“Well, Detective Harriman—”
“Call me Frank.”
“Very well, please call me Guy. I really appreciate your meeting with us. When Irene told me her friend was with the police, I knew it must be someone trustworthy, so I asked her to invite you to join us.
“Irene, you have told Frank about the safe-deposit boxes and so on?”
I nodded.
“Ah bien. What I have to say is — something happened this morning which made me curious. It turned out to be a part of a pattern. A man by the name of Robert Markham came into the bank carrying a large briefcase and signed in to use his safe-deposit box.”
“I’ve heard that name somewhere before,” I said, sitting upright. “And his initials are on the list on O’Connor’s computer notes. There were four sets of initials: AH, which I figured was Hollingsworth, RM, which might be this Robert Markham, and then EN and RL. RL for Richard Longren, but who is EN?”
“I believe I know. Robert Markham has entered the safe-deposit area on several different occasions. Each time, three days later, someone named Elizabeth Nickerson came in. They share the same deposit box.”
“Elizabeth Nickerson?” said Lydia. “Mayor Longren’s administrative assistant?”
“The same.”
“So who is Markham?” Frank asked.
“He works for Andrew Hollingsworth,” Guy explained. “He performs a number of duties: chauffeur, guard; whatever is needed, I suppose.”
“He was the guard at the gate when we were there,” I said.
“Yes,” Guy said. “We found the pattern by looking at the signature card and activity records for a safe-deposit box he rented; Miss Nickerson is authorized to use the same box. He comes into the bank on the morning after a fund-raiser for Hollingsworth. I believe he is putting some cash into the safe-deposit box, and Miss Nickerson is removing it. That way, nothing is reported to the Fair Political Practices Commission.”
Our food arrived and we ate in silence, thinking over all Guy had told us.
“I’ll have to report this to the U.S. Treasury Department and to my superiors at the bank,” Guy said. “They will not be pleased, I am afraid. The Hollingsworths have several very healthy accounts with us.”
“Is there anyone you can trust there?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand. They can be trusted. They know what the penalties for withholding the information can be, and when I tell them that the police and the newspaper have already been in contact with me on the matter, they will not really have a choice.”
“It still takes guts,” Frank said. “What can I do for you?”
I was happy to see he had warmed up a little.
“Can you contact the state attorney general’s office?” Guy asked. “I believe they are the ones to talk to about getting subpoenas and warrants if need be — since we can hardly contact our own district attorney. If Mr. Markham has left the cash, we will need to enter the box before Miss Nickerson cleans it out.
“I am also worried that this is somehow connected to the attempt on Irene’s life, since she was coming out of the bank when a car tried to run her down. And because her friend was killed and he was also investigating this same matter, I am quite concerned.”
“I am too,” Frank said, looking at me meaningfully. “As soon as I get back to the office I’ll try to get a subpoena for the contents of the box and see what I can do about Markham and Nickerson as well. I’m not sure the attorney general will go for it unless you can provide me with the records of their movements.”
Guy reached into his pocket and removed a set of neatly folded papers. “Will these do?”
It was a copy of the signature card, with both names on it, and copies of each time they signed in to use the box.
“Thanks,” Frank said, “this should do it.”
Guy paid for our lunches over our protests and we thanked Sam and left the restaurant. On the sidewalk outside, I stayed close to Frank, letting Guy and Lydia have a moment or two together. Just in case.
Frank turned to me when we reached Pete’s car. “He’s a nice guy. I can see why you like him.”
“Sorry. I’m busy trying to win someone else’s affections.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe you’ve already won them.”
I looked up at him. I felt the same reticence I had noticed the night before. “Still mad at me?”
“I haven’t been angry, really. Just worried about you. Anyway, I’d better run.”
I waved good-bye to him as he pulled away from the curb and turned around to see Lydia doing the same with Guy.
“Well?” I said, as I walked over to Lydia.
“We will be best friends for another twenty-five years, Irene.”
“So you like him.”
“I like him. We’re going out to dinner tonight.”
“Boy, not wasting any time, are you? Good thing I made you watch all those hockey games with me.”
“No kidding. He’s pretty easy to talk to anyway. But we better get back to the paper before John bursts a blood vessel.”
We drove back, each of us with our own thoughts and distractions.
43
I WORKED ON pretty dull stuff the rest of the day. I’d look over at Lydia every once in a while; she looked like a regular bluebird of happiness. I kept thinking of Frank, pushing him out of my mind and thinking about him again. Lydia went off to a city editors’ meeting at about five o’clock.
I decided I would take a run along the beach. I had some shorts, a tank top, and my running shoes in the cubbyhole of the car, so I went downstairs to get them. I changed up in the women’s room and bundled up my work clothes. I was just stopping by the desk to put away a couple of pens I’d found in my pocket when the phone on my desk rang.
“Irene? Elinor Hollingsworth.”
If she hadn’t told me, I never would have recognized the frightened woman’s voice on the phone as that of the cool, calm Ice Queen I had met a few days before.
“Elinor? What’
s wrong?”
“Oh, Irene, I’m so upset. It’s Andrew. He’s done something terrible.”
“What?”
“I think he killed your friend, Mr. O’Connor.”
I swallowed hard. “What makes you think that?”
“I found something he wrote to one of those men who died in the car crash. About a bomb.”
“Elinor, get away from him. Call the police.”
“No! I can’t trust the police department. He owns Bredloe in Homicide and a dozen others. I have to get this to someone who can be trusted. And he can’t see me doing it. I don’t want him to suspect anything until someone honest can arrest him. No one is here now — he’ll be gone for at least an hour. Can you come out here? I’m at the estate. I’ll give the note to you and you can give it to your friend in Homicide. Maybe he’ll know what to do.”
My mind was whirling. Captain Bredloe — who knew I was staying with Lydia — on the take from Hollingsworth?
“Please, Irene! I don’t know when I’ll get another chance like this. He has Markham watching me all the time. This is the first time Markham has taken him somewhere without me.”
“Okay, Elinor. Stay calm. I’ll see what I can do.”
I hung up and called the police department. I asked for Frank.
“He’s not in,” a voice said on the other end. “You want to leave a message?”
“Just tell him Irene called.”
I scribbled a hasty note to Lydia telling her I was going out to the Sheffield Estate, to tell Frank if he called back.
I raced out of the building, jumped into the car and headed down to Shoreline Drive. Five-o’clock traffic was at its worst, and I felt myself break into a cold sweat as I inched my way out of downtown. Finally I reached a more open stretch of road, and drove like a madwoman to make up for lost time. As I approached the road that ran along the woods, I slowed a little.
What the hell was I doing? I had to be crazy to be coming out here alone. On the other hand, I thought of Elinor’s pleading. I couldn’t let her down. I would try to get her to leave with me. Anything would be better than staying there with someone as ruthless as Hollingsworth.
I was down to a cautious creep as I approached the gate. Its arm was raised and the guardhouse empty. The whole place seemed deserted. It was a spooky contrast to Friday night. I got out of my car and was locking the door when a voice not three feet away from me said, “What are you doing here?”
